by Nick Cole
On the other side of these hills, he told himself, is Forest Lake Avenue. There’s a 7-11 over there.
He thought of cool water from the beverage case in the 7-11.
A big bottle of it.
At the top of the hill, he looked back. The crash site was overrun by zombies now. They surged in and around the wreck like ants in syrup. Groups clustered around the two dead crew members who’d been thrown from the wreck, while others climbed on top of each other, only to fall face down inside the wreck as they tried to get at the pilot, no doubt, thought Holiday.
He kept moving across the overgrown landscape of dusty brown scrub, cut and intersected by trails of white chalk patterned with the outlines of wide mountain bike tires. Only the occasional wild cactus patch or eruption of stray red fern dotted the lonely hill. He spotted two large, circular water reservoirs at the top of the hill and climbed toward them to get his bearings. He could see the whole Saddleback Valley spread out beneath him. To the north was Viejo Verde. To the south, Rancho and to the west, Forest Lake. He could see the small parking lot of the 7-11 down at the edge of Forest Lake. There was also a fast food restaurant, a dry cleaners, and a few other businesses down there. He couldn’t see anyone moving around. Just a few abandoned cars in the parking lot.
Behind him, to the east, he could see only the dry and barren hills he’d crossed. Land the developers had yet to rake away and build another planned community of the future on. The zombies seemed to have lost track of him, what with all the bodies at the crash site.
He made his way down the cactus strewn slope, pushing his way through some tall bushes before he dropped down over a cinder block retaining wall and into the parking lot of the strip mall where the 7-11 and cool water, or so Holiday hoped, waited for him at its other end.
He waited for a second, listening.
It was very quiet. Normally, Forest Lake Drive would have been inundated with lunchtime traffic, racing to get to the fast food restaurant or back to work. Normally.
He changed his grip on the assault rifle. His fingers had been wrapped around the scope. Now he cradled it in his arms, his finger resting near the trigger.
He had no idea if it was ready to fire or not.
He thought about test firing it, but the noise would surely draw any zombies out that might be hiding nearby.
“It’ll just have to fire when I need it to,” he murmured, hearing the dryness of his voice. It sounded raspy. A croak. He licked his lips. They were dry and cracked. Peeling already.
The parking lot looked completely normal. There were a few cars parked in stalls. The grass medians and islands where tiny trees provided cool shade looked well kept. Still watered. The grass was getting a bit long though.
“But,” murmured Holiday to himself. “The end of the world has been going on for a week.” He chuckled drily. The assault rifle felt good. It felt like the opposite of the terror and fear he’d felt as he merely ran for his life from… those… dead people last night and early this morning.
Water.
He walked forward, hearing the sandy scrape of his boots on the hot pavement of the parking lot. That was the only sound.
He checked a few of the cars. All of them were locked.
In front of the 7-11, there was a small car. A butterscotch Japanese import. A Corolla maybe. The windshield was cracked. The antenna bent. Holiday tried the door. It was unlocked. There was blood on the windshield. Empty inside.
Holiday looked toward the 7-11. He couldn’t see anyone inside. He could barely see anything at all. The windows were tinted, and the glare of the sun reflected off them. He could only see newspaper racks lined up against the glass.
He stepped onto the sidewalk and the doors slid open. He felt a blast of cold air. He smelled stale hot dogs and bread. He walked inside, looked about, saw no one. He turned right and walked down a short aisle until he was standing in front of the upright cold cases where chilled bottled water waited inside.
He thought about all the beer in the coolers along the side wall.
He opened the glass door and pulled out a hefty bottle of water. He leaned the assault rifle against a nearby rack of potato chips, and uncapped the drink, raised it to his cracked and dry lips, and began to gulp. Then he heard the click. The sound the hammer of a pistol makes when it’s thumbed backward. He’d heard that sound in movies. Sometimes the punctuation that followed a snappy line of dialog. Sometimes the cleared throat that prefaced important dialog.
In this case, it was the clearing the throat variety.
Then…
“Hold it right there, Loc’.”
Then…
“No sudden moves or I’ll bust a cap in ya head, as they say back on the block.” The voice was dry. Almost sarcastic.
Then, “Everybody be real cool.”
Part Three
Down the Rabbit Hole we go.
-Doctor Midnite
Chapter Twenty Three
Three days earlier.
“Everybody be real cool,” says Ritter. Then, “Right now, everybody needs to be real cool.”
They stood on the second floor of the sprawling office complex. State of the art business furniture, and halls replete with motivational posters of the beach or eagles soaring, surrounded the survivors that remained. They stared out at the parking lot full of cars.
A parking lot also full of zombies.
It’s been that way for a week now.
A week since everything went… well, it just went.
The survivors were on the second floor of an office building, looking out at the last of the day. The sun faded to orange in the west, made even more so behind the darkly tinted glass of the long conference room.
Skully stood against one wall, near a corner. Baggy pants. T shirt. Hoodie. Pale. Gaunt. Small. A drug addict. A food delivery guy who got caught there on the wrong day.
Or the right day, thinks Ritter to himself.
Then there’s Candace. Candace Martin-Miller. Project lead. Degree from some state school. Probably paid for every penny of it waiting tables. She was in over her head when she got this job. She’s still in over her head now that the world’s ended. Somehow she still wants to be in charge of all that, thought Ritter, watching the zombies shift and stumble out in the parking lot beyond the tinted glass. Good luck, girlfriend.
Then there was Dante Calderon. Played for Nebraska State. Heisman contender. Two years with the Seahawks ten years ago, thinks Ritter.
What have you done for me lately, quipped Ritter, again to himself.
It’s better that way.
Dante’s got his sports coat off. Still muscle bound. But thicker now. No longer the running back of the moment. Instead he’s been working on “used to be pro-gone to fat”.
“Everybody be real cool,” whispered Ritter again. They all turned to watch him. They’d stopped listening and waiting to see if Dave made it out the front door down below. That had been the plan.
At least that was Dave’s plan, thought Ritter.
There was nothing to listen to now.
Unless you go out into the hall and put your ear against the stairwell door, Ritter ruminates. Then you could probably hear the zombies down there finishing Dave off.
They couldn’t have eaten Dave that fast. Dave was a big meal. Ritter again. That boy was super-sized.
Ritter checked his smartphone.
Still no message.
“So,” began Ritter and cleared his throat. “Dave’s plan didn’t work. As we can all clearly see.”
Ritter was tall. Thin to the point of anorexia. Pale. A white brother with a thin mustache. Fuzz really. Sunken cheeks. Deep dark brown eyes. Pools almost. Brown hair, maybe blond when he was a kid. Maybe red. He wore designer jeans. A t-shirt that cost $500 at DKNY in New York City. A thigh-length butterscotch leather coat. Very 70’s. Ver
y Shaft. Yes there was even a thin gold chain around his neck. Yeah, he’s that guy. A white brother who thinks he’s got street cred to burn.
Ritter caught a glimpse of himself, a reflection in the tinted window as the last of the dying sun was swallowed by a dark landscape beyond the lights in the parking lot. Somewhere beyond that dark silhouette of rising hills in the distant west lay the Pacific Ocean.
Yeah, I’m that guy, Ritter thought to himself. The white brother. That’s what they see. That’s all they want to see.
Then…
It’s all good.
“They can’t get up to this floor, y’all,” said Ritter.
Dante glared at Ritter.
Incredulity? Terror? Ritter wondered. Fine line between both right about now.
“So we’re safe up here,” continued Ritter, using calming tones and the deeper aspects of his voice. The Barry White zone, or so he liked to think of it.
He stepped close to the wide, tinted window of the conference room and tapped on it like he was tapping on some goldfish bowl. “See, those chumps don’t even see us up here,” he said to himself. “Even with the lights on.”
This was really all for them, the other survivors, thought Ritter. If he was cool, they’d get cool. Now that Dave was out of the picture they’d be easier to manipulate.
Dave was a problem, Ritter reminded himself. Dave was a troublemaker. Dave’s not here, man. Dave’s gone now. Y’know.
“You jes kiddin’ yourself,” Dante spat out. “They know we’re here, white boy. They can smell us or somethin’. But they know we’re here,” he shouted. “They know that for damn sure!”
“No they don’t,” replied Ritter, not moving. “They don’t know nuthin’ no more.”
Ritter continued to watch the zombies below. Milling around. There were more, many more, unseen and down in the corridor that led to the fire exit. The one that Dave had tried to use. It was most likely full of them now. The ones that were in there with Dave, or what was left of Dave, they’re down there, in that fire exit, thought Ritter. In front of the corporate headquarters, out on the sidewalk, spilling into the parking lot like looters at a riot. Like shoppers on the last Black Friday.
Probably the last one ever, thought Ritter.
The zombies were down there and in all the places between Ritter and Ritter’s destination. Ritter’s rented Lexus was down there in the parking lot, too. The one Dave thought he had the keys to when he made his mad dash for the fire exit. The real keys to the Lexus… Ritter had dropped those in some anonymous desk drawer back in the main office.
It was the only way to get rid of him, thought Ritter. Dave was going to get everyone killed. Better he just got himself kilt’ instead.
“They can’t smell,” said Ritter softly. Everything Ritter gave them must be soft right now. It’s all they can take, thought Ritter. Things had been wound too tightly for more than a week. They had no idea what all this was really about. For now, they just needed to calm down so Ritter could get out of there alive and make his appointment.
“They can’t smell and they can’t climb. And if they don’t pile up all the way to the second floor, which is unlikely if we stay hidden, then in time they’ll just go away.” Ritter turned away from the window having said what they most desperately needed to hear right now. For now, they were safe.
“How do…” began Skully, his voice shaky. Tremulous. The voice of one who doesn’t talk much. “How do you know that, man?”
Ritter dropped his gaze on Skully. He gave the kid that, “c’mon, man, for real?” look.
Then, “Cuz I do, homeslice. Sure as I know you’re holding weed.” Ritter tilted his head to the side, questioning Skully. “Am I right, little man?” Friendly-like.
Skully, like that deer we’ve all heard about in the proverbial headlights, took a step back.
First move of the guilty, thought Ritter. Surest sign. Takin’ a step back. Straight up guilty as sin.
“I ain’t…” but he let it trail off. The denial. Because it was a lie. And because no one cared anymore. No one here was a cop. No one was going to call the cops because they’d tried that a week ago. They’d all been picking up random phones and dialing 9-1-1 and other numbers. No one had answered.
They’d called the cops.
Apparently the cops were busy.
Ritter pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Stuffed at the back of the pack was a joint. He picked that out between two fingers and held it under his nose. He smelled it. Then he looked at Skully, who was pale and scared and sweating. Skully laughed stupidly.
“It’s cool, little man,” said Ritter and lit up. He inhaled deeply, held it, then spilled the smoke out through his nostrils and into the room.
“They can’t get in here,” his voice deep from the smoke. Deep and cracked. “Ain’t that right, Candy?”
Candace’s hand fell to her keycard, dangling from a lanyard around her wrist. She saw Ritter watch it and she adjusted her belt. As though that was what she was actually doing instead of making sure the keycard that unlocked everything, except one thing in the office, was still around her wrist for the umpteenth time.
Ritter guessed, no, knew, that the belt had set her back an entire week’s paycheck. And she made good money for someone with her background.
“Gimme some a that!” Dante stalked across the room and held out two thick fingers. Ritter moved the joint ever so slightly in Dante’s direction. Dante snatched it, and inhaled deeply, and started coughing immediately.
“Take it easy my man,” laughed Ritter, as Dante coughed himself to death. When he came up for air, it looked as though he had actually just swum up from the bottom of a deep pool. As though he’d gone down deep in some half remembered lagoon, too deep, too far down, and the kick back to the surface was almost too much. Almost. The whites of his eyes stood out against his chocolate skin. They were veined and red. Yellow at one corner.
“Want some?” said Ritter to Skully once he’d taken the joint and another hit.
Skully shook his head. Not immediately. There was a detectable pause. Ritter was sure of it. Drug dealer skills. Mad drug dealer skills.
Candace did and said nothing. She’d never been high. Drunk yes, a little, but never drunker than anyone she was with. They were always drunker. And maybe, maybe thought Ritter, she hadn’t really been drunk at all. Ever.
“So what are we gonna do now?” asked Ritter, his eyes at half mast. He wasn’t stoned, but they thought he was. Dante wandered to the window. He stared down at the dark shapes moving down in the parking lot. Sometimes they’d wander into the white cones of light, then you could see them somewhat. The light cast long shadows across their darkened faces. You saw the color of shirts faded by the light into washed out pastels. The darker stains. The blood. The pale skin. In the cones of light they looked like statues.
No one answered Ritter.
You see, thought Ritter, they were all hoping Big Dave would’ve made it like he said he would. They wanted out that bad. They believed Big Dave when he said he was coming back. Advanced Psych would’ve told everyone he was an ESTJ with a narcissist complex. Totally out for himself. If he could’ve got that Lexus started, which would have been a real trick since Ritter hadn’t even given him the right set of keys, Big Dave would’ve headed straight out of there as fast as he could’ve punched the accelerator. He’d had no intention of getting help for anyone but Big Dave.
Plus, Ritter reminded himself. There really wasn’t any help to get. He would’ve died out there. Whether it was a few blocks away trying to get into some gun store, or on a beach in Hawaii. There really ain’t no safe place left now. Not one that just anyone can find. You got to be in the know.
“We’re gonna sit and be cool,” said Ritter in the quiet of the conference room. “Help’s on the way.”
No one said anything.
Sku
lly slid down the wall, his head in his hands. Candace walked off. They could hear her moving papers around on a desk back in the main part of the office.
“It’s a damn lie,” muttered Dante to the window. To himself. To what was left of the world as he knew it.
Chapter Twenty Four
The next morning showed the parking lot still crowded with the undead.
“Why ain’t they going anywhere?” Dante asked Skully. The two of them were in the conference room. Skully was just waking up. He’d curled up into a ball after he’d slid down the wall the night before. Then he’d passed out and slept the whole night through, not moving once.
Crashed was more like it.
Skully could actually say it was one of the best nights of sleep he’d had in a long time. Now that the tweak was starting to leave his system through forced withdrawal, he was actually starting to feel better. Normal again. Whatever that was.
Candace had slept on Dave’s couch.
Ritter suspected it wasn’t the first time she’d been there.
Dante had moved from place to place. Stalking. Like a caged panther moving about in the night. He’d moved through the halls all night long, checking the doors, never landing in any one place too long.
Ritter had found a nice chair in the upstairs lobby and stretched out his long legs. He’d plugged his smartphone into the wall to charge, and checked for the message he’d been waiting for one last time before he’d faded for the night.
There was no message.
Then he’d slept. Slightly buzzed. Listening to Dante stalk the halls.
Now it was morning. He could hear Dante in the conference room through the thin wall next to his head, mumbling a question he would never find the answer to. He heard Skully rise from the floor with a groan and a yawn.
“Don’t know, man,” was all the kid said.
There was no third floor. This was it. There was only the roof above them. But they didn’t need that yet. All these doors were locked by keycards. The zombies hadn’t even figured out how to climb the main stairs or the fire stairs. But they were still down there, anyone could hear them if they pressed their ear to the main door of the Green Front suite of offices. They could hear the recently dead still milling about in two nondescript corporations that occupied the rest of the small two story building. Ritter thought they’d both been medical technology companies.